


Skin Hunger

by SherlockedPsych (Makhsi)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:11:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makhsi/pseuds/SherlockedPsych
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's encounter with The Woman woke something in him: a long-suppressed need for physical contact. Skin hunger, insistent and incessant, and no act of will could bury it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> This is set shortly after "A Scandal In Belgravia" and it deviates from canonical plot from there. 
> 
> Some warnings: This fic is sheer indulgence, and I'm writing in all my favorite fandom narrative kinks: angst, hurt/comfort, asexual!Sherlock, torture and trauma, all of it. Also, I will probably be updating slowly and sporadically.
> 
> Many, many thanks to **gee-wa** over on LiveJournal for the thorough beta read, and to **not-poignant** here on AO3 for the initial read through and encouragement. You two are fantastic.

Sherlock never deleted a memory of touch.

They happened too rarely, those fleeting moments of physical contact. He usually initiated them: putting John's jacket back on him and propelling him bodily back outside for a case, hugging Mrs. Hudson with firm affection, gripping John's arms as he urged him to remember the Chinese graffiti. 

People found him alien and fey, unapproachable... and this was a carefully cultivated boundary, to be sure (the touch of strangers - to be avoided at all costs). It did mean that he had to be the one to reach out for that sort of warmth when it came to the scant few people he actually liked, but...

But he didn't need it. Didn't crave it. Lived thirty years of his life without it just fine. Independent.

Besides, he existed with his mind and senses in overdrive. Any extraneous sensory input grew overwhelming, _over-_ stimulating, and threatened to disturb the clarity of his thoughts. Muddling them. Unacceptable. 

It was one of many reasons he wore the thick long cloak, a suit of armor grown so familiar he didn't notice its touch anymore. And the black gloves, often worn even indoors: a precaution against handshakes, that necessary evil of social interaction with strangers, reducing the potential interference of unnecessary tactile feedback.

Sherlock didn't envy others their ease of physical contact, the casual affection of their fraternal relationships or romantic pursuits. He lived mostly untouched, and never noticed anything lacking.

That is, until The Woman. 

The Woman, with her intrigue and her boldness, her audacity, her never-casual physical proximity. Warmth. Pulse. Breath. One of the only people to ignore his rigid boundaries and the societal norms that made those boundaries so easy to maintain – one of the only people other than Mrs. Hudson to touch him in something resembling affection. He allowed the contact and more than that, he let himself _experience it,_ soak in the nearness of another person.

Crucial mistake.

Now, each incidental touch burned in his awareness, highlighted in searing color like the crucial detail of a case except so much more _useless._

Sherlock had only to close his eyes to recall:

Mrs. Hudson's hand on his back one late (caseless) morning as she set a plate of toast before him. The casual warmth of the gesture seeped into him, and his animated rant (odd, he could remember precisely where her hand rested and for how long, but not the subject of his annoyance) faltered for a breath and a heartbeat. He covered with a strained smile and a murmured “thank you” which was, of course, no cover at all, since John and Mrs. Hudson both shot him startled glances at the rare pleasantry. His landlady patted his shoulder. “Of course, dear,” she said, before turning back to the half-distributed breakfast tray with a smile.

Another: He'd just removed his gloves (hasty of him) upon entering Bart's – and there was Molly, mincing but eager-eyed, towing a sandy-haired man behind her (nearly as timid as Molly by his lack of eye contact and shuffling feet – a nurse judging by the bags under his eyes and the particular wear of his clothes – possible anxiety disorder, no, wait, trying to quit smoking and thus fidgety and stressed). She babbled introductions; her new date smiled sickly, still not making eye contact, and thrust his hand out. Sherlock took it without thinking (should have put on his best imperious stare and pushed past but he was distracted by thoughts of the project waiting for him in the lab), and the nurse had cold clammy hands, limp in Sherlock's firm brusque grip; _ugh._ He extracted his hand from Molly's date, wiping it none-too-surreptitiously on his coat. “Another one, Molly?” he said, tone harsher than usual. It felt like his skin had absorbed the essence of the towheaded nurse, cold sweat and stale smoke and neuroses, too close, cloying. “Not a con artist or gay this time, though I doubt 'spineless' is much of an improvement. _Really,_ is this the best you can manage?” Sherlock thrust his hands deep into the familiar (safe) texture of his coat pockets and swept past into the lab, steeling himself against the look on Molly's face.

Then: stumbling into 221B with John, gasping between rib-clenching bouts of laughter. “Can't believe,” the doctor wheezed, “the look on Donovan's face, hah, did you see...” John bent double, recovering his wind, one hand heavy on Sherlock's shoulder for support, and the contact made the rumbling laugh die in the detective's chest. All his awareness narrowed to a square palm and five fingers sending warmth into his skin, chest, core - he inhaled long and slow, breathing it in like a good cigarette after a year's withdrawal. John glanced up at him - straightened - pulled his hand back with a mumbled “sorry”. 

Now there was this gaping, aching need within him, like a void beneath his skin, setting nerves afire. He allowed this one connection, and it awoke the long-dormant hunger for contact in him. And he couldn't lock it away again, couldn't lull it back to sleep... 

_Completely_ unacceptable.

His efforts at shutting it away went unrewarded. If anything, Sherlock's attempts to ignore the desire for touch made it worse. Sharper. He had to address it. Find a solution, a treatment or – preferably – a cure. It couldn't be worse than the tedious necessities of food or sleep or exercise. He could run on adrenaline and excitement for the duration of a case (one day, two, three at most), but he eventually needed to fuel his body with food and rest it with sleep or else it would begin negatively impacting his cognitive abilities. 

Well then. He was between cases, wasn't he? Optimal time for experimentation. He'd fed himself (or Mrs. Hudson had provided food and he'd eaten it for once, which was essentially the same thing). He'd slept (an hour here, two hours there, interspersed with violin or pacing or fussing with petri dishes in the kitchen; it still counted). All that remained was feeding this frustratingly mundane need for physical contact.

So it was that he agreed to movie night with John. His flatmate had decided some time ago to attempt to educate Sherlock on popular culture despite Sherlock's repeated diatribes on the irrelevance of the information. Picking apart the flaws in the story of each mediocre film wasn't enough of a challenge to keep him entertained, and half the time he ended up researching one interesting bit of trivia or another on his Blackberry instead (ignoring John's exasperation). 

Movie nights did mean sitting on the same couch as John, however. It provided a reasonable, low-risk environment in which to attempt a very basic experiment. The primary subject: himself. A flaw as regarded objectivity, to be sure, but as he was trying to find a solution to his own physiological and psychological dilemma, it only made sense.

And thus: the thick butter-and-salt aroma of popcorn, the flickering light of the telly, and the familiar worn lumpiness of the sofa. Sherlock sat poised on the edge of one cushion, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled, his gaze distant as he turned his attention inward. _Muscular tension, more rigid along either side of my spine, and in the scalene and trapezius muscles. Partial cause: improper posture while working on the laptop for hours. Immediate cause: unconscious muscular tightening due to...?_

The couch gave a metallic complaint and shifted beneath him with an additional weight – ah, yes, John's arrival from the kitchen, beer in hand. Sherlock glanced sidelong at him, noticing: posture (leaning back on the couch, shoulders dropping without the usual pull of tension to keep them up and forward), facial muscles (eased in the forehead, tighter around the mouth with the hint of a smile, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes), and attention (on the telly, a loose focus, he's seen this show many times before). It all read “comfortable” and “relaxed”, a stark contrast to Sherlock's own body language (every line of him gone taut, leaning forward, slightly furrowed brow, thinned mouth).

Sherlock forced himself to lengthen each breath and ease the rigidity in his joints and limbs. He stared at the washed-out images on the telly (filmed with older technology by the color, low-budget even for its time). John was laughing at the program, something inane about whether a parrot was dead or sleeping – and he'd sat close enough that Sherlock could feel the body heat pooling between them. It wasn't the largest of sofas, after all, and it sagged in the middle with age so that any occupants had to perch next to the stiffer arms on either end if they wanted to avoid sliding towards each other. 

Breathe. Breathe. The detective counted his inhalations and exhalations by the thudding of his pulse in his ears, chest, hands. A forced relaxation might seem like a contradiction in terms, artificial, but he'd never manage this facade if he were wound tight as a spring. Inhale. Exhale. There – better. Right then.

Sherlock reached for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and settled back onto the couch with it. He let his long limbs splay akimbo as he crunched a piece of popcorn (salty but otherwise tasteless and of dubious nutritional value; why do people eat this stuff?). His flatmate laughed aloud again at repeated statements about the Spanish inquisition, and Sherlock slid another inch towards the inevitable center of the couch until his knee rested against John's.

Inhale. Exhale. Sherlock stared fixedly at the television stand for the space of several breaths before chancing a glance at John. No, of course not; John was oblivious this time, perception dulled by the nostalgia of the show and the soporific effect of his (second? When had he gotten another?) beer. How could anyone avoid noticing physical contact, even incidental and minimal as a few centimeters of touch as this?

Sherlock's gaze unfocused as he turned his attention inward, two fingers finding the pulse in his wrist, counting silently. “Interesting,” he murmured, and waved a dismissive hand at John's questioning hum. His heart rate had been too rapid before (stress? Surely not nervousness, ridiculous, no reason for it), but now, as he drank in the small prolonged contact, his pulse slowed. He'd read studies of the brachychardiac effect of touch but it was nonetheless interesting to see it in his own physiology. 

“Hmm.” Brachycardia he could measure; a lower blood pressure, release of endorphins, and reduction of stress hormones, and improved circulation were harder to test in this environment, though the research he'd read said that these were all effects of touch. 

He ought to feel guilty or ashamed, stealing skin contact in seeming accidents, thieving touch in moments by the TV or under the guise of experimentation or haste. Only with John, though; Mrs. Hudson he could hug without pretense, and he wanted no contact from anyone else (intrusive, overwhelming, like insects crawling beneath his skin, or the sharp spike of a live wire – a far cry from the nourishing warmth that seemed to spread throughout his entire body and into the starved core of him at even the most casual touch from someone who was safe/familiar/a friend).

He should feel guilty – any other person might, engaging in furtive tactics just to get a hit of touch-induced endorphins. But any other person would just go out and find a relationship, and Sherlock had no patience for the formalities and sentiment of such a waste of time as romance. Another person might seek out casual sex, but Sherlock had even less desire for carnal pursuits, the crude biological mechanics of a reproductive urge he seemed to lack entirely.

No, he didn't feel guilty. Touch was a basic mammalian need, and it wasn't _his_ fault he was born into one of the least touchy societies on the planet, where physical contact was reserved for infants (who survived poorly without it) and romantic partners (back to the issue of reproductive activities). 

Sherlock dimmed his audio-visual awareness, looking without seeing, hearing without listening. The constant chatter of data and analysis in his head muted somewhat; he let it run in the background, distant. Instead, he turned all his attentional resources to the three-square-centimeter point of contact: his knee resting against John's, and the electric charge of body heat in the space between them... He drank it in, insufficient but perhaps it was best to approach it like food after a fast, or water after long dehydration: a gaping need, its severity unrealized until the first taste when the hunger hits with all its yawning emptiness, yet eating too quick and too much after so long deprived could overload the body into failure. Slow. Gradual. Figure out how much touch he needed to function, to stop being so damned hypersensitive to every accidental jostling and insipid handshake.

“Sherlock!”

It wasn't so much the sharp repetition of his name that caught Sherlock's attention as much as movement, John shifting away from him and breaking the contact. He forced himself to stillness and control - to _not_ follow the fading body heat, _not_ appear as starved and desperate as he felt. He blinked once, twice, bringing his awareness back to normal (less tactile awareness, or as much less as he's managed since The Woman; more auditory awareness, more visual). 

John stood over him, concern wrinkling his brow, no longer displaying his earlier signs of relaxation. Ah, behind him, on the telly – a cartoonish display around “THE END” in large blocky letters – the popcorn gone, two empty beer bottles on the table – probably John had tried to get Sherlock's attention more than once already. Mm. Careless.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Yes, John, good, you know my name. Congratulations.” he said. Perhaps it was more sarcastic than he'd intended, but better than giving any hint to his thought process and the frustratingly mundane weakness behind it.

“You...” John's mouth tightened and the lines of his brow sharpened to something closer to irritation than worry. _Good._ “You didn't take in any of it, did you?” He didn't wait for an answer, just shrugged one shoulder and sighed. “Right, fine, I ought to expect that. Sorry. Going to bed, then; clinic in the morning.”

“Mm.”

He didn't take more than a dim notice of the pace and weight of John's footsteps up the stairs; he'd already returned to his earlier position, leaned forward on the edge of the couch with his fingers steepled before his face. Less tension now, though; fascinating. 

Data: Touch induced brachycardia in Sherlock's physiology, and had an apparent correlation with relaxation (more trials needed for a proper sample size).

Inference: Other established effects of touch (endorphin release, lowered blood pressure, reduction of stress hormones) likely applied to Sherlock as well. (Find a way to test these. A blood pressure test should be feasible at the very least.)

Conclusion: Insufficient data for a solid conclusion. 

Need more data. His skin prickled and his heart rate increased at that thought – he frowned, sifting through his mental library of the symptoms of emotions. Anticipation? Nervousness? Both? Surely not nervousness, he didn't _get_ nervous, not under circumstances as trivial as these. Anticipation, perhaps, but there was a keen edge to it, echoing in his chest and gut, the hungry void of touch-starvation that seemed only sharper despite (because of?) the droplets of contact he'd fed it.

He'd need to try a larger dose next time. Maybe that would get it to stop bothering him. Or perhaps – likely – it was equivalent to food and sleep, and the all-consuming high of a case would silence the physical and psychological symptoms of deprivation. Because this... distraction – this was unacceptable.

A case. Yes. That should do it. Maybe it'd even jolt him from this fugue and allow him to regain control over the physical contact nonsense. Sherlock nodded, sharp and decisive, and rose to his feet. Maybe there was something in the news feeds, or in his email. Time to commandeer John's laptop again.

He needed a distraction. He needed a _case_.

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit is welcome, but please be gentle; I haven't written fanfiction for seven years, and haven't written any fiction longer than a vignette for about five years.


End file.
